Generation Dead

  Tommy, where are you?

  She sneezed, the scent of rotting wood filling her sinuses. Her folded hands were like blocks of ice on her stomach. She was cold all over, and it was like the darkness was drawing the heat from her body. Above the music she could hear her breathing and her heartbeat, but neither seemed normal to her; her heartbeat too slow, her breathing too fast. She closed her eyes when the purpling dark revealed what looked like faces and clutching hands, but when her eyes were closed, the faces were still there.

  "T ...Tommy?" she said, her voice a flat whisper.

  She lay motionless--even her shivering stopped. She knew then that she never should have trusted him; that he was never coming back, that he had left her alone in the dark.

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  She wanted to rise, to lift herself off the cold wood floor but she could not breathe. The dust coated her lungs, and she wanted to move but was afraid. Because what if she couldn't move? What if she tried to move and her body would not obey her? What if she and her body were no longer one because the purpling dark had sucked her spirit out like liquid at the bottom of a glass?

  Was this what they felt?

  A light cut into the darkness beyond. She lifted her head from the floor, thinking she heard the tendons in her neck creak. And there was Tommy with a flashlight, standing in the doorway. She blinked as he trained the light in her direction, and the force of her exhalation made the dust whirl and spin.

  "Thank you, Phoebe," he said.

  She watched her breath, a mix of vapor and dust, flow from her. "Can I get up now?"

  "Please. I want to show you ...something."

  He waved the light over to the wall behind her.

  "Look," he said.

  She looked.

  The wall was covered with papers that had been taped, or in some cases, nailed onto the crumbling plaster. She got her legs under her and walked closer to the wall. She looked at the papers, some fluttering in the drafty air. Most were digital images printed to computer paper, but there were a few scattered photographs and a couple of slick Polaroids.

  The blank stares of a hundred differently biotic kids looked out at her as though in accusation.

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  "Every one of them ...felt...what you felt just now. The cold. The darkness. The ...fear."

  She could see the fear etched into the blank faces. A young-looking boy in a Boston Red Sox cap looked away from the camera, his expression like that of a beaten dog too scared to meet the eyes of his master. A girl whose face was horribly burned stared straight ahead, her one lidless eye a bottomless well of pain.

  "Every one of them ...died ...and came back."

  There was a boy with a shaved, scarred head who had taken off his shirt and put a large kitchen knife into his chest and was looking with a disturbing placid calm at whoever had snapped his picture. Another dead girl in a party dress stood beneath a poster of Cinderella Castle at Disney World, her face sallow and unsmiling.

  "You ...cannot...know ...what...we ...feel."

  She turned away from the wall and the forlorn children upon it, hearing the same hurt quality somewhere in the monotone of his words. There were so many of them on the wall. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

  "Because ...we ... do not...know what...we feel."

  She took a step toward him.

  "I need to ...help ...us."

  She hugged him, and although their embrace was not long, she began to feel warmer by the time they joined the kids moving to the heavy metal blaring on the first floor.

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  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A DAM ROLLED THE TRUCK into his driveway about an hour later. Phoebe thanked him and wished him a good night and hurried across the short stretch of grass that separated their houses. He watched her go, and she must have known he was watching, because she waved again as she worked her key into her front door.

  He waved back, wishing that a vampire would swoop down at her from the roof of her house, or a pair of lurking thugs would leap from the bushes, because then he could spring into action. He could launch a flurry of kicks and open-hand strikes to her would-be attackers and beat them into submission, and when he was done she'd know. She'd know that she was protected, and she'd know that he would always be there for her. She'd know everything.

  He slapped the hood of the truck in frustration.

  There were only three other cars and the truck at the home

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  of the STD, which meant that Jimmy and Johnny were still out, causing chaos. Fix cars, drive cars, break cars. Sometimes Adam looked with jealousy at their lives, which seemed so uncomplicated to him.

  Inside, the STD was awake and in front of the television, flipping back and forth between a baseball game and some sitcom, a line of empties on the floor on the side of his recliner.

  The STD looked over at him and nodded. "Hey," he said.

  "Hey," Adam replied. "Mom in bed?"

  "Yeah," came the wheezing reply. The STD's work shirt was open to his navel, and a tuft of wiry black hair poked out at the V of his once-white undershirt. His arms were still stained with grease.

  "She was pretty tired tonight. I think her boss was giving her crap again this week."

  Adam nodded. His mom worked at a bank, and her boss was an arrogant, brusque little man who had reduced her to tears on several occasions.

  "How was your date?"

  Adam looked for signs of sarcasm, but saw none in the weathered face. The STD liked watching television with the lights off, and the blue illumination from the screen lent his face a pale, differently biotic quality.

  "It was good," he said. "We went to a party."

  "Oh yeah? Did you have any beer?"

  "Naw."

  Adam felt his stare. "Well, you can get one now if you want. Long as you bring me one."

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  "Okay, Joe. Thanks."

  Adam went to the refrigerator and cracked a couple cans of beer, one for him, and one for Big Joe Garrity, the STD. Joe wasn't such a bad guy once he got into his third or fourth beer, which was usually an hour or so after dinner. Adam handed him the beer and lay down on the couch, balancing his can on his wide chest.

  "You like this girl, don't you?" Joe asked him after taking a noisy sip.

  "Yeah," Adam said. "Yeah, I do." "This the cheerleader? The blonde?"

  "Holly?" Adam said. The Sox were up three to two, but there was one more inning to play. "Naw. I quit seeing her this summer for the most part."

  Joe gave a quiet belch and shifted in his seat, almost dropping his can. "Pretty girl," he said. "Not a whole lot of personality, though."

  Pershonality, Adam thought. His father, Bill Layman, had been an alcoholic too, but his "pershonality" went the other way when he drank. While the STD grew more tolerable, Bill Layman grew demonic. Adam sipped from his can, wondering why his mom needed to go for guys that drank. He wondered about Phoebe.

  The STD swore when the tying run reached first after a grounder bounced off the third baseman's glove.

  "You're right," Adam said, after a time.

  "So who's the new girlfriend? Is it the one from next door, finally?"

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  And the truth shall set you free, Adam thought. He took another sip. "Yep."

  The STD was silent for a moment. The next batter chopped the ball right to the second baseman, who ended the game with an effortless double play.

  "She seems like a nice kid," Joe said.

  "Yeah," Adam said.

  Joe fell asleep somewhere in the ninth inning between the careful dissection of the pitch count and the in-depth analysis of the batting order change. Adam listened to his snores until he heard one of his stepbrothers pull into the driveway, at which point he gathered the empties and dumped them into the recycling bin after washing them. Johnny came in, smelling of beer and cigarettes, and thumped him on the shoulder.

  "Hey, bro," he said, heading down the hall to his room.

  "Hey." Adam drained t
he remainder of his can into the sink before following him down the hall to his own room.

  Phoebe took the bus the next day, so Adam was alone with his thoughts for the drive. He tuned into a sports radio station, something he never got to do when Phoebe was in the truck with him, and within minutes he was reminded that the pleasant glow Joe had been sporting last night would be gone today because the Sox ended up losing in the ninth on a two-run homer. Bye, Joe. Thanks for stopping in. Hello, STD. Adam wondered if any other kids had their home life governed chiefly by the consumption of alcohol and the Sox's record.

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  He arrived at school early. Some of the teachers were just coming in, and none of the buses had arrived yet. He pulled into the student lot at the bottom of the hill and debated going inside, then decided against it. He went through his backpack and found his creased copy of Wuthering Heights and tossed it onto the seat next to him as though he were planning on reading it. The radio personality was discussing the relative importance of the Red Sox game to the cosmos, and he took out his history textbook because they were due for a quiz, and he realized that the only reason he was waiting in his car was so that he could watch Phoebe leave her bus and walk up the steps and into the school.

  Dang, he thought. He shoved Wuthering Heights back into his pack, got the duffel with his gear out of the truck bed, and started the uphill trek to the school.

  He was about halfway up when he watched a green station wagon roll next to the curb in the bus lane, and then he saw a familiar shock of pale orange hair appear over the roof of the car. Evan waved at the driver and watched as the car pulled away. Adam jogged up another half flight of steps so he could get a good look at the driver, who was a woman with hair a shade darker than Evan's.

  His mom, Adam thought. Dead kids can have mothers.

  "Hey, Evan!" he called. "Wait up!"

  Evan turned like he expected the shout to be followed by a thrown rock. Adam called his name again, and then Evan waved a pale hand and waited for him outside the school.

  "Hey," Adam said, his breathing even, thanks to the weeks of conditioning, "thanks for a good time last night."

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  He noticed that Evan had a scattering of light beige spots across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, the ghosts of freckles. He was about half Adam's size, a skinny little guy in an oversized T-shirt and jeans. He stood there looking up at Adam as though waiting for a punch line.

  "That was pretty cool, seeing where you guys hang out. I mean, listening to the music you guys listen to and all." Adam shook his head and whistled. "That sounds really stupid, huh?"

  Evan give his weird lamb's bleat of a laugh. "I wish ... I could still ...whistle," he said. "I ...try ...and try ...but I can't get it. I used to be a ...great whistler."

  "No kidding?" Adam said, not knowing what to say next, and feeling stupid for having said anything in the first place. A bus roared up along the road next to them as Evan tried to say something, but his words were gobbled up by the guttural engine.

  "What?"

  "I...said ...that you and ...Phoebe ... were the first...living ...kids we've had over," he said.

  "Really? Wow, what an honor," Adam said. "So, do you ...stay there?"

  "I stay with my ...family," he said. Another bus chugged up the hill, and Adam could see Margi's pink spikes through a window toward the back.

  "Oh yeah? Was that your mom that dropped you off?"

  Evan nodded, and Adam thought he could detect the slightest hint of a smile on his pale face.

  "Cool," Adam said. "So hey, I was wondering ...I've got a

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  question for you. But don't take it the wrong way, okay? I don't mean to be insulting, so please don't be insulted, okay?"

  Evan looked like he was trying to shrug, but one shoulder lifted considerably higher than the other.

  "Shoot," he said.

  "So what I was wondering," Adam said, conscious that behind him the buses had started to release their passengers. "What is it like ...what is it like to be dead?"

  Evan looked at him with his dull, unblinking blue eyes long enough for Adam to think that, despite his precautions, he'd insulted Evan after all, but then the smaller boy spoke.

  "I don't know," he said. "What is it like ... to be alive?"

  His expression didn't change as he laughed again, the sound like that of someone heavy stepping on a dog's squeak toy.

  Adam felt himself grinning.

  He looked over at the buses just as Phoebe got off. He started to wave, but she wasn't looking at him, her face shrouded by a curtain of shiny black hair as Margi talked at her, her spangled arms stabbing the air, emphasizing whatever ludicrous point she was trying to make. Tommy was right behind them.

  Phoebe laughed, her hair falling back over her shoulder and revealing her open mouth, her smooth pale skin. Adam smiled, but then Tommy managed to catch up with them, blocking his view.

  Adam sighed. "Let's get to class, Evan," he said, hefting his duffel and slowing his pace so the smaller boy could keep up.

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  ***

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  G OOD AFTERNOON, EVERY one," Angela said, her brisk

  stride carrying her into the middle of the room. As she passed Phoebe, she put a soft, warm hand on her shoulder.

  She was followed by Alish and a trim young man who Phoebe recognized instantly as Skip Slydell, the author of many books and articles on the whole undead movement. "Today we have a special guest who you will recognize from having watched the CNN video last week. Please welcome Skip Slydell."

  Skip waved. "Thank you, Angela and Mr. Hunter, for letting me come here today. And thanks especially to your students for putting up with me for the next hour or so."

  Margi looked at Phoebe and rolled her eyes heavenward, pointing out that every time Principal Kim or Angela introduced a guest speaker to the class they did it with a sort of

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  over-the-top elated gravitas, as though the coming of the guest speaker were both a joyous and serious occasion.

  The first thing Slydell did was hand out business cards to all the kids. Phoebe watched Tayshawn grip his in two hands and bring it within inches of his nose, his eyes crossing.

  SKIP SLYDELL ENTERPRISES, the card read, and featured a studio head-and-shoulders shot of Skip beaming over a pile of books and products. IN ASSOCIATION WITH THE HUNTER FOUNDATION. There was an 800 number on the bottom of the card.

  "Let's get to it, shall we?" he said. "Ms. Hunter has told me that one of the main goals of this foundation that you are all working for and learning in is something I call the successful acclimation of differently biotic persons into society, as well as to acclimate society to a point where it is more fully accepting of differently biotic persons within it. Does that make sense? Any questions?"

  He did not wait for either question to be answered. He walked as he talked, with his large, soft-looking hands waving and pointing to accentuate his statements. He took great care to make eye contact with every person, and would hold the contact a few beats longer when he focused on one of the differently biotic people. He spoke so quickly that Phoebe thought it was unlikely that most of the dead kids could follow. She might have had trouble following had she not made herself a coffee when she came in.

  "Could you all turn your chairs over here? Would that be okay?" There were two long tables at the back of the room, each

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  covered with a white cloth that hid whatever was stacked from view. He stood in front of them.

  "The question then becomes, How can we make that acclimation happen? How can we make that acclimation happen? It isn't easy to do, what we are planning. Change the culture. Changing the culture is very, very difficult, even in this country. You and I"--and here he held Sylvia's blank gaze for a pause of nearly twenty seconds--"you and I have not chosen easy work for ourselves. Not at all. It isn't easy to transform culture."

  He leaned back against the table,
staggering a bit, as though the enormity of their shared task had overtaken him and left him breathless. Margi was making a low humming sound that brought a smile to Phoebe's lips, because it meant Margi had turned on her bullshit detector.

  "What we are going to do is not easy. But it can be done. Even here in America. Elvis Presley did it. Martin Luther King did it. Jimi Hendrix. John F. Kennedy. Bill Gates. Michael Jordan. The two guys that created South Park ."

  The American community of saints, Phoebe thought.

  "And we can do it, too. Do you follow me? The fact of the matter is that the heavy lifting, the really hard work, has already been done. You know why?" He smiled. "Because the undead are a fact of life. That's a funny phrase, isn't it? Almost an oxymoron. Say it with me: the undead are a fact of life."

  No one joined him in the chorus, but a few of the kids looked a little uncomfortable--undead wasn't a word typically

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  used in polite society, especially not in a room full of undead kids.

  "How did what I just said make you feel? Think about that for a minute. The undead are a fact of life. How do you feel? Karen, isn't it? Could you share your feelings on what I just said?"

  Karen blinked. "It's true," she said, and blinked again. "You've presented a reality that not everyone has chosen ... to accept."

  "Wow," he said, grinning at her. "Wow. A reality that not everyone has chosen to accept. Wow. I'm writing that down."

  He withdrew a notepad from a leather case and began to write. "Exceptional. Thank you for that. What about the terminology I used?" he asked. "How do you feel about that?"

  "I'm ...neutral. But it bothers me when certain people use that word," she said, "about me."

  "But it didn't bother you when I said it?" he asked, tossing his notebook on the table.

  She shook her head, her hair swinging like curtains of platinum caught in a breeze.